Blog - Dena Harrishttp://www.denaharris.com/blog/Sun, 04 Mar 2018 12:48:19 +0000en-USSite-Server v6.0.0-19924-19924 (http://www.squarespace.com)Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty… Cat StuffDena HarrisSun, 04 Mar 2018 12:51:41 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/here-kitty-kitty-kitty55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:5a9beb13e4966b23a723c5bcI want a cat.
There, I’ve said it. Proclaimed my intent to the Universe. Although I’m
only willing to accept moderate blame when events transpire to actually
bring a cat into my life.
I have no business getting a cat. A few strong reasons off the top of my
head include:
1. I’m allergic.
2. My lease doesn’t currently allow for pets.
3. I’m allergic.
4. I’M NEVER HOME. This poor animal would be alone 80% of the time.
5. The last thing I need are more expenses in my life.
6. Did I mention that I’m allergic?
And yet. I want a cat.

There, I’ve said it. Proclaimed my intent to the Universe. Although I’m only willing to accept moderate blame when events transpire to actually bring a cat into my life.

I have no business getting a cat. A few strong reasons off the top of my head include:

I’m allergic.

My lease doesn’t currently allow for pets.

I’m allergic.

I’M NEVER HOME. This poor animal would be alone 80% of the time.

The last thing I need are more expenses in my life.

Did I mention that I’m allergic?

And yet.

The boy was in town last week and as we took a walk around the neighborhood, I paused near a large wooded area.

“Do you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear wh—“ he began.

“SHHH!!!!” I flapped my hands at him, cocking an ear toward the woods to listen. A distant wailing Meooooow? Meooooow? filled the air.

“Oh my God,” I said, trotting toward the woods. “Cats only make that noise when they’re lost or in trouble.” I crawled over a fallen pine. “I’m coming baby!” I yelled. “Kitty-kitty-kitty?”

We searched the area for 10 minutes but the wails were moving away from us and soon they disappeared. I was both relieved and disappointed. I had kind of thought the moment had come and I had “found” my new cat.

I can tell the time is drawing near to bring a feline into my home. Namely, I am desperate to pet and cuddle every dog I see. I accost neighbors on the street as they walk their pets, kneeling to receive wet doggy kisses and stroke silky fur. Each time I do, I’m reminded how calming it is to pet a cat, and how much I like watching the silliness of cats as they play with cotton mice, hide under the couch to swat passing legs, curl up in odd spaces to sleep or even, yes, destroy my furniture by using it as a scratching post.

But I mainly want a cat because the house feels empty without one, as if there’s a big blank space in the room where it’s obvious something should be.

I’m not going to go out looking for a cat. Not technically, anyway. But I can no longer deny that I’m putting out the “Come and find me” vibe for my next feline baby.

I. Can’t. Wait.

Cheers & Purrs,

Dena

So, You Know About the Atlanta Traffic, Right?Home LifeDena HarrisSun, 18 Feb 2018 21:02:17 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/so-you-know-about-the-atlanta-traffic-right55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:5a89e92641920223d099c90aWhen I began sharing the news that I had taken a new job near Atlanta and
was moving . . . spreading my wings. . . opening myself to new horizons. .
. without fail the first comment from almost everyone was, “OMG. You know
about the traffic there, right?”
Yes, I am aware of the traffic. Thank you for your loving concern and
support.
So how bad is it really? Having lived here now for three months, I can tell
you that the 12-mile drive to my office from home can take anywhere
between. . .When I began sharing the news that I had taken a new job near Atlanta and was moving . . . spreading my wings. . . opening myself to new horizons. . . without fail the first comment from almost everyone was, “OMG. You know about the traffic there, right?”

Yes, I am aware of the traffic. Thank you for your loving concern and support.

So how bad is it really? Having lived here now for three months, I can tell you that the 12-mile drive to my office from home can take anywhere between 22 and 43 minutes, depending on day of the week, schools being open or closed, and if Mars is aligned with Saturn. (Seriously—some days are just totally random.)

But for all the fear of God that was put into me about traffic congestion before I moved here, it really hasn’t been bad. Here’s why.

Why Atlanta Traffic Is Not as Bad as You Think

1. You’re Always Moving. Given the horror stories, I expected to be trapped in gridlock traffic, inching forward every 10 minutes or so. Nope. Most of the time, I’m riding steady. It may be 30 in a 55, but we’re still moving. What causes more of the delays are a lot of stops for traffic lights. But I have rarely been “stuck” in traffic.

2. Atlanta Drivers are NICE. Like, scary nice. Maybe it’s because traffic is such a big, hairy deal around here, people are super calm and helpful. If you get stuck in a lane you didn’t realize was a turn lane, or need to cross three lanes of traffic to turn left, people stop, smile, and wave you on. No one seems to get upset and the only person I’ve seen exhibit even minor road rage or honk a horn is me, just because… yeah. I do that.

3. You Always Have Something to Talk About. There is a certain glory in being the office worker with the longest commute, or having your normal 40-minute drive turn into two hours. No one doubts you. People nod and commiserate. You get to tell your story three times at lunch. And we all gaze upon those in our office who commute a solid 90 minutes each way (and there are many of them) with a kind of God-like reverence.

4. The Traffic Goes Away On Weekends. While due to heavy traffic I may not want to leave my house at 5 pm on a weeknight to run to Target, there are absolutely zero issues zipping around on weekends or even after about 6:30 on a weeknight. Traffic is no worse here than anywhere and much better than crappy Battleground Avenue in Greensboro. (That’s right, I said it.)

5. Ed Sheeran / Perfect. Ed Sheeran’s ballad “Perfect” gets a lot of radio play. On a good day, I can listen to it 3-4x by the time I get to work. Totally makes the time fly by.

Don’t get me wrong. There be cars here—lots of them. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised at, overall, how easy it is to get around.

And so to answer your question—yes, I know about the traffic.

All good.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Will Run for FriendsHome LifeRunningDena HarrisSun, 21 Jan 2018 22:34:52 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/will-run-for-friends55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:5a6512e69140b7b61f4ee138One of the hardest decisions in moving to Atlanta was knowing I would be
leaving behind my 25-year network of friends. These are friends that saw me
through job changes (insurance adjuster, librarian, author, marketing
maven), life changes (divorce, moves, dating), as well as were there for
everything from my first published book to my first marathon to holding my
hand when my cat died. A lot of years, a lot tears, much more laughter, and
oodles and oodles of love.
In other words—not something easily replaced.
Of course, I’m not “leaving behind” friends but since the five-hour drive
between Atlanta and Greensboro isn’t convenient for a quick movie or fro-yo
meet-up, the burden is on me to make new friends.
The obvious place to make friends, for me, is the gym. I joined a big-ass
Lifetime Fitness...One of the hardest decisions in moving to Atlanta was knowing I would be leaving behind my 25-year network of friends. These are friends that saw me through job changes (insurance adjuster, librarian, author, marketing maven), life changes (divorce, moves, dating), as well as were there for everything from my first published book to my first marathon to holding my hand when my cat died. A lot of years, a lot tears, much more laughter, and oodles and oodles of love.

In other words—not something easily replaced.

Of course, I’m not “leaving behind” friends but since the five-hour drive between Atlanta and Greensboro isn’t convenient for a quick movie or fro-yo meet-up, the burden is on me to make new friends.

The obvious place to make friends, for me, is the gym. I joined a big-ass Lifetime Fitness that has rows and rows of treadmills and shiny machines, as well as 50+ bikes in their spin room and classes every morning. Gym => sweat => bonding => friendships => DONE. Easy-peasy, right?

Not so much. Here’s the thing about those rows of machines. When you have 50 treadmills available, it’s like a movie theatre. You’re not going to sit down in an empty theatre in the open seat right next to the one person in there. So if I’m on the treadmill, 10 other people may be running as well, but we’re all spaced apart, headphones on, in our own little worlds.

So I’ll take some classes. Mmm… not a lot of morning talkers in the classes. It’s getting better. Over some snow days a determined five of us showed up and were like, “No class, what??” So the bonding has begun.

But what I really want—what I really, really, REALLY want, are runner-friends.

My first couple of weeks here, I messaged local running groups. I joined up with one group and discovered a great greenway. I loved the people and the route was beautiful but everyone was significantly slower than me. So I kept looking.

I had my eye on another group but between snow and ice and travel back to NC, I hadn’t been able to make a Saturday run. Yesterday, I finally had my chance. I texted the boyfriend Saturday morning that I was heading out to run and “troll for friends.”

BOOM. I think I hit gold. It was 34 degrees Saturday and still dark at 7 am, but about 12 runners showed up for 3, 6, 10 and 15-mile routes. Most of them are a slower pace than me, but there was one guy who is stupid fast (like 6:15/mile pace) and a young girl who had just moved here from California who is close to my pace, so the three of us started out with the larger group and then ran together. And afterwards, as all great running groups do, all paces huddled together in the parking lot, discussing our runs (my group saw a wolf chasing a deer—amazing) and the races we’re all training for.

A few of us stuck around for bagels and coffee and I was so happy I could have floated away. That’s my idea of a perfect Saturday morning—an early run with friends followed by carbs.

My mom asked if it bothered me that I may not have a pacing partner in the group. The answer is no, because that’s not really what a running group is about. I need a group to hold me accountable to show up on a Saturday morning, no matter what the weather. A group to chat with in the moments before the run, and stay with the first ½ mile or so as we all warm up into our paces. After that, I don’t mind running alone. Because I know at the end, there will be more chatting and laughing and friends waiting for me—or me for them. That’s the value of a group—the knowingness that you’re not out there alone, and that there’s a reason to “hurry back” to where the cars are parked.

You want to get there before all the good bagels are gone.

YAY running!

Cheers,

Dena

]]>The Saga of the License PlateHome LifeDena HarrisWed, 17 Jan 2018 11:32:36 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/the-saga-of-the-license-plate55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:5a5f335671c10bedb016c59cAs most of you know, after 20+ years in NC, I’ve recently relocated to
Georgia, about an hour outside of Atlanta. More updates on that later.
Right now, I want to share with you the saga of the license plate. It’s a
story that more or less sums up my life. What takes other people twenty
minutes, takes me 9 weeks, 8 phone calls, 4 DMV visits and a two-week plan
to evade the law.
It all started the week I moved to Georgia. I was checking things off my
list right and left (pictures hung in new home - check. Food in fridge –
check. Wall art for half-bath – check, check, check) and in an effort to be
pro-active, toddled off to the DMV to get my GA driver’s license. I showed
up prepared for anything – NC driver’s license, passport, pay stub, and
invoices from gas, electric and trash removal verifying my new address. I
approached the teller window.
Teller: “Social security card.”
Me: “I don’t have that, but here’s my passport.”
Teller: “I can’t issue you a license without a social security card.” As most of you know, after 20+ years in NC, I’ve recently relocated to Georgia, about an hour outside of Atlanta. More updates on that later. Right now, I want to share with you the saga of the license plate. It’s a story that more or less sums up my life. What takes other people twenty minutes, takes me 9 weeks, 8 phone calls, 4 DMV visits and a two-week plan to evade the law.

It all started the week I moved to Georgia. I was checking things off my list right and left (pictures hung in new home - check. Food in fridge – check.Wall art for half-bath – check, check, check) and in an effort to be pro-active, toddled off to the DMV to get my GA driver’s license. I showed up prepared for anything – NC driver’s license, passport, pay stub, and invoices from gas, electric and trash removal verifying my new address. I approached the teller window.

Teller: “Social security card.”

Me: “I don’t have that, but here’s my passport.”

Teller: “I can’t issue you a license without a social security card.”

Me: “But… passport. See? I have a tan.”

Teller: “Next.”

People, I have not seen my SS card in years. And having just packed and unpacked every item of my belonging in my move, I know I never came across it. Nevertheless, I drove home and began to systematically rip the house apart. After having emptied my wallet no less than five times in three hours (convinced I’d missed a secret compartment holding my card), I gave up and did what any normal person would do. I shifted the blame to others.

First up was the ex. I texted B. and asked if he’d seen my SS card or still had it.

“I sent that to you years ago along with your birth certificate in that big white envelope,” he texted back. “Remember?”

I did remember, but was annoyed, as now it was clear I’d misplaced not only my SS card, but also my birth certificate. Next on the chopping block was my mom.

“I’m sure I gave these to you to hold,” I said, sure of no such thing. “Remember? You said since I no longer had a safety deposit box, you could hold on to them for me. This is your fault.”

“Nice try, Dena,” said Mom. “Keep looking.”

Damn it. I tore the house up for another week before admitting defeat. My card—and birth certificate—were gone.

North Carolina

I hopped online and was pleased to see I could order a new card there. Until, that is, I noted that I had a NC drivers license, which the SS site kindly informed me was not accepted online and I’d have to go to a SS office to request a new card.

Shit.

There is no SS office close to me but, as I was in NC this past weekend, I planned time to swing by an office. And so, after driving five hours from Atlanta to Greensboro, I went immediately to the nastiest, swelteringly hot SS office where I was surrounded by some of the more vivid characters of society, and sat for almost two hours before my name was called.

“Hi” I said, approaching the teller and pulling out my already-completed paperwork like the kiss-ass I am. “I seem to have lost my social security card.”

His reply heartened me and made the wait worthwhile. “Well, you just sit down and we’ll have you taken care of in jiff,” he said.

I exhaled. “Thank you! I just moved to Georgia and I can’t get a driver’s license without a SS card.”

The teller frowned. “Wait—you live in Georgia? Then I can’t help you. We can’t mail cards across state lines.”

I literally felt the earth shift below me. Two hours of waiting for this? Come on.

“I can come back and pick it up,” I offered. “Or give you my mom’s mailing address?”

He shook his head. “That’s how fraud happens. We have to mail it to your home address.” He handed back my paperwork. “Go to a Georgia office. They’ll have a new card for you in 3-5 days.”

Georgia

Arriving back home in Georgia, I found a notice from the NC DMV that since my NC liability policy was cancelled when I moved, my plates expire Feb. 3 and I need to mail them back in. Of course.

I call the NC DMV and explain the situation: no SS card = no GA driver’s license = I can’t get GA plates. Please help.

Shockingly, the DMV was no help whatsoever. (Who knew?) I was informed I’d already incurred a $50 charge and they would revoke my plates on Feb. 4 if not returned. Awesome.

I haul ass the next day to a GA social security office and let me say this—I freaking love Georgia. I walked into the office at 2:58 pm and was back in my car by 3:14 pm, having ordered a new card. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the card won’t arrive for two weeks. At which time I still have to get my license before I apply for plates.

“Can I pay some sort of fee to expedite the process?” I asked the SS teller.

She shook her head. “It’s a federal agency.”

Okay. Time for damage control. I call the GA DMV and explain the situation. Plates being revoked Feb. 4. New SS card not coming in until end of January. Can I get temporary tags or…?

“There’s nothing I can do,” said the woman on the phone. “We can’t issue you temp tags.”

“Just to be clear,” I said, “You’re telling me my only option is to drive around with revoked plates and hope I don’t get pulled?”

“That’s correct.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Okay. Is there some way you can document this conversation to show, if I do get pulled, that I at least tried to legally resolve this situation?”

“No ma’am.”

“Right. So, what happens if I do get pulled over?”

“I’m not familiar with the fines, ma’am. You would have to explain your situation to the officer.”

And now we wait

And that’s where I’ve landed. My hope is the timing juuuust works out so my card comes in late January and I get my driver’s license and plates just before the Feb. 3 deadline. But giving how this process has gone thus far, I’m not holding my breath.

And until then, I will be driving under cover of night, very, very slowly…

Cheers,

Dena

]]>When you make the infographic. . .Food & DietRunningDena HarrisMon, 25 Sep 2017 09:34:39 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/when-you-make-the-infographic-55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:59c8cc89f09ca4eb6e4e2835After my last post, Elysium Health highlighted a training tip of mine in their new infographic. Don't act like you're not impressed.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>5 Training Tips Anyone Can UseRunningDena HarrisMon, 28 Aug 2017 18:54:42 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/5-training-tips-anyone-can-use55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:59a4649c8419c281f407bb90I get a lot of questions about the best ways to train. Which, considering
I spent the earlier part of this year on crutches, unable to run for four
months due to an overuse injury that could have been avoided, I find
somewhat amusing. Then there’s the immediate back-pedalling that takes
place, usually in the form of, “But I don’t want to run, or get up at 4 am,
or do anything that’s hard.”
Gotcha. I can work with that.
Below are five training tips I try to follow. I say try because let’s be
honest—we’re all human and some days will be better than others. But these
are the big picture items that have kept me pushing for the last ten years,
and they are things anyone can adopt into their lifestyle.
1. Pick Something You Love
I can’t count the number of times people say to me, “Ugh, I know I need to
run but I hate it.” Um… why exactly do you need to run? I hate Pure Barre
and even though my butt never looked better during the month I took
classes, I’m not going back.

I get a lot of questions about the best ways to train. Which, considering I spent the earlier part of this year on crutches, unable to run for four months due to an overuse injury that could have been avoided, I find somewhat amusing. Then there’s the immediate back-pedalling that takes place, usually in the form of, “But I don’t want to run, or get up at 4 am, or do anything that’s hard.”

Gotcha. I can work with that.

Below are five training tips I try to follow. I say try because let’s be honest—we’re all human and some days will be better than others. But these are the big picture items that have kept me pushing for the last ten years, and they are things anyone can adopt into their lifestyle.

1. Pick Something You Love

I can’t count the number of times people say to me, “Ugh, I know I need to run but I hate it.” Um… why exactly do you need to run? I hate Pure Barre and even though my butt never looked better during the month I took classes, I’m not going back. Life is too short. Find something you love, or at least don’t abhor. There’s cycling, swimming, walking, gym glasses, jumping rope, rowing, yoga, pilates, racquetball and about a billon other things. Choose 1-2.

2. Remind Yourself You Love This Horrible Thing You’ve Chosen

I constantly hear, “It’s easy for you, you love to run.” Guess what, folks? I hate the first few steps as much as the rest of you. I rarely if ever “feel” like running. But I know I’ll feel good about it in the end, so I show up. But during a hard training or a race, when everything hurts and I’m not making progress and I’m mentally ready to throw in the towel, I pause my thoughts and remind myself I’m here by choice. I’m in this 8-hour race because I have defined that as fun. No one is forcing me to be here. Reminding myself that my participation is non-mandatory helps re-focus my thoughts.

3. Change It Up

This one’s hard for us, creatures of habit that we are, and I’m as guilty as the next person. Since I bike, run and swim I tend to give myself a pass, thinking that of course I’m always mixing up my routines. But I also do Bodypump 2X/week, and last week I skipped it in favor of just hitting some light weights in the weight room. The next day… OUCH. I’d used my muscles in a new way, reminding myself of the value of not doing the same old, same old. If you always run three miles, try running the second one 30 seconds faster. Or run hills instead of flat. Or do pull-ups instead of your usual push-ups. Every workout, do at least one small part a little harder, a little heavier, or a little faster. Small pushes accumulate to make a big difference.

4. Get Your Sleep

Do as I say, and not as I do. On the nights I actually get 7+ hours sleep, I perform noticeably better in my workout and I’m much less hungry throughout the day. One day a week of 8 hours won’t cut it. Better to miss a workout in favor of sleep than to be chronically sleep-deprived.

5. The Power of One

I stole this trick from a book I read and it works like a charm. So often, we don’t train because all we can see is the big picture—it’s going to eat up 40 minutes of my time, I’ll sweat, it will hurt, I don’t feel up to the workout anyway, etc. Okay, so just do one rep of something. Literally. One push-up. One sit-up. One deep-knee bend. You’re only on the hook for one, and if you want to walk away after that, there is no guilt. I use this trick at night when I prefer to slump on the couch in front of the TV versus working out. And sometimes that one rep is all I do. But more often than not, if I’ve rolled myself onto the floor during a commercial to do my one sit-up, I don’t mind banging out a couple more, which often turns into a small ab workout, since I know I can quit at anytime, having reached my goal of “one.” (We are such mental creatures, aren’t we?)

That’s it for now. I hope you can use 1-2 of these tips for motivation in your own workouts. If you find one that works especially well for you, I’d love to hear about it.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Raleigh 70.3, Part III: The RunRunningDena HarrisMon, 03 Jul 2017 09:30:37 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/raleigh-703-part-iii-the-run55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:595a0b7e9de4bb45731c7694When I first signed up for this half Ironman, I knew my swim would be slow
and my ride would be average, so the plan was to make-up some time on the
run. The Universe had other plans though, and handed me the stress fracture
in my hip. It was literally only days before the race when my chiropractor
agreed that I could try a walk/run of the course, but only if I swore a
blood oath that if it hurt, I would stop. And, in a cruel twist of fate,
advised that my best strategy would be to run the uphills and walk the
down. That goes against everything I hold dear in life, but okay. I figured
I would run a mile/walk a mile throughout the race for as long as I could.
My strategy worked perfectly… for the first quarter mile.

On the course...

When I first signed up for this half Ironman, I knew my swim would be slow and my ride would be average, so the plan was to make-up some time on the run. The Universe had other plans though, and handed me the stress fracture in my hip. It was literally only days before the race when my chiropractor agreed that I could try a walk/run of the course, but only if I swore a blood oath that if it hurt, I would stop. And, in a cruel twist of fate, advised that my best strategy would be to run the uphills and walk the down. That goes against everything I hold dear in life, but okay. I figured I would run a mile/walk a mile throughout the race for as long as I could.

My strategy worked perfectly… for the first quarter mile. Then holy-f’ing-heat Batman! It. Was. Blazing. And I hadn’t done any brick workouts where I practiced running after biking. And I hadn’t been running outside. And excuse, excuse, excuse. Long story short, I managed a mild sporadic jog throughout the 13.1 miles, but I walked the majority of that sucker.

I was not alone. Most people were walking or doing a dead-man’s trot, half-stumbling with glazed eyes toward some stopping point they had marked off—a stop sign, a curve in the road, an aid station.

The course was a double loop, out and back, which meant I got to see others progress. My colleague Si had told me at the start of the race his goal was to be the first Asian to finish, so when I saw him coming back on the course as I was going out, I started screaming, “First Asian Si! First Asian!” (I may have been hysterical from the heat at this point.) People are looking sideways at me and I’m like, “It’s okay. I know him.”

The hardest part was the first three miles. I had expected to be running these miles and when I couldn’t (or wouldn’t), I went to a bad mental place. 13.1 seemed like an incredibly long way to walk, especially as my skin felt like it was peeling off me. I walked and walked and walked and walked, only to come to a sign that said, “MILE 1.” Uh-oh.

Best feeling ever...

Those first few miles were my slowest. (I think mile 1 was like a 20-minute pace. Ugh.) Once I settled in mentally and accepted it would be a long day, things got easier, and I actually ran a bit here and there.

Around mile 7 I noticed that I had stopped sweating, had chill bumps and was cold. Not good. At the next aid station I was like, “Salt. Give me all the salt.” I stuffed pretzels in my mouth as I sucked on an orange. A really good look. But I staved off the dehydration.

On a good note, hip pain never kicked in. And around mile 9, after I reminded myself that no one was forcing me to be here and that, in fact, I was walking on shaky legs, dripping sweat and chaffing because I find this kind of thing fun, I had a great time.

About a half-mile away from the finish, I started running because, yes, I wanted the pictures of me crossing the finish line to be at a run. And when I heard them announce, “Dena Harris from Greensboro, NC crossing the finish line, a first-time finisher,” it made every hot, miserable, doubtful moment worth it.

Super cheesy shot but I was delirious at this point. ;)

And, like every race I’ve ever done, about 10 minutes after it was over, the mental pain disappeared and I started thinking about the next race I would run. (Marathons, ultras and Ironmans are like childbirth in that you forget the pain… or so I’m led to understand.) I will say this race put enough fear/respect into me that I’m delaying my entry into the full Ironman. I thought I would do this as a practice and then train for a full. Um.. NO. Having done this, I have newfound respect—and fear—for the full Ironman. I’m looking at late 2018 or early 2019 for that particular disaster to happen.

I drove home right after the race, spent an hour scrubbing my age off left calf (because, NO) and surprisingly, ate very little. Until the next day, when I ate triple my weight in food at breakfast alone.

I’ve read a number of running blogs or articles where people talk about how, after their marathon, they found an inner strength, knowingness that if they could do this, they could set their mind to anything. I’ve never had that feeling from a marathon. I don’t completely have it from this half-Ironman either, but I have glimpses of it. Enough that I’m fairly certain if/when I complete an Ironman, I will have that experience of, “If I did this, I can do anything.” That’s what I’m chasing—that feeling.

Or at least, that’s what I tell people when they ask me, “Why do you DO this?”

Cheers,

Dena

GOAL RECAP

Goal #1: Don't drown. Check.

Goal #2: Average at least 16.5 mph on bike. Check.

Goal #3: Finish the race. BOOM-SHAKA-LAKA-LAKA! Check.

]]>Raleigh 70.3, Part III: The RunRaleigh 70.3, Part II: THE BIKEDena HarrisTue, 27 Jun 2017 17:31:34 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/raleigh-703-part-ii-the-bike55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:59529601e58c6241adc286fb(ICYMI: Part I: THE SWIM)
Let’s call it like it is. I crushed the ride on this race. 18.71 average
speed. My normal pace with a group where I’m drafting is closer to 17.5, so
I had aspirations of maybe holding a 17 mph average. Crushed. It.
What helped me is my Garmin died before the ride even started, so I had no
idea for the entire 56 miles what my pace was. I just rode according to how
I felt. The first 3-5 miles were shaky (I kept repeating, “You’re out of
the water. You’re alive.”), but then we turned right onto the highway, I
settled into my arrow bars and literally said out loud, “Let’s make some
time.”
Fun fact: They mark your age in sharpie on your left calf in an Ironman
race. Not sure why, but...

Let’s call it like it is. I crushed the ride on this race. 18.71 average speed. My normal pace with a group where I’m drafting is closer to 17.5, so I had aspirations of maybe holding a 17 mph average. Crushed. It.

What helped me is my Garmin died before the ride even started, so I had no idea for the entire 56 miles what my pace was. I just rode according to how I felt. The first 3-5 miles were shaky (I kept repeating, “You’re out of the water. You’re alive.”), but then we turned right onto the highway, I settled into my arrow bars and literally said out loud, “Let’s make some time.”

Fun fact: They mark your age in sharpie on your left calf in an Ironman race. Not sure why, but I do know I found it motivating as I sped by other riders. “Eat it, age 22.” “Suck it, 34.” “Oops, hey age 78. Much respect. Namaste.”

The absolute best part was at the first water stop. The volunteers at these races are phenomenal, every last one, and this water stop was no exception. More experienced riders grab food and water and keep going, but I pulled over to empty the fresh water bottle I’d been handed into my bike bottle. A sculpted 22-year-old blonde Adonis came jogging over to me, holding ice-cold water bottles in both hands. The sun was blazing.

“Do you need to me spray you down?” he asked, waving the bottles, all big earnest eyes and face.

HA! Just kidding. I thought it though. The reality is that while I like to think I’m some sort of spandex-clad, athletic goddess to this innocent youth, in truth I’m bloated from the energy drinks, I have smears of chocolate around my mouth from stuffing in GU’s and bonk bars and—if I’m being completely honest—I peed on myself a little bit coming out of the water.

Near the last five miles I was definitely feeling it, but I never struggled on the ride. Which now has me thinking, “You know, if I actually had a really fast bike…” But that’s for another time.

I pulled into the transition area, which was the hardest part, having to walk my bike, in bike cleats, a solid quarter mile (or it felt that way) to my station. It was just after noon and temps continued to soar, but all I had left was the run. My strong suit. Right?

Here's where we are so far:

Goal #1: Don't drown. Check.

Goal #2: Average at least 16.5 mph on bike. Check.

Stay tuned.

Dena

]]>Raleigh 70.3, Part I: THE SWIMRunningDena HarrisThu, 22 Jun 2017 14:25:21 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/raleigh-703-the-swim55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:594bb8216b8f5bb74f316f21On Sunday, June 4, I completed my first (because there will be more) Half
Ironman. 1.2 mile swim. 56 mile bike ride. 13.1 mile run.
Being my first IM, there’s a lot to process, especially as I didn’t think
I’d be able to complete the race due to my hip injury. I am thrilled beyond
all words that I finished and probably most proud of the fact that I have
(as of yet) to get the IM tattoo splattered across, you know, my face.

Being my first IM, there’s a lot to process, especially as I didn’t think I’d be able to complete the race due to my hip injury. I am thrilled beyond all words that I finished and probably most proud of the fact that I have (as of yet) to get the IM tattoo splattered across, you know, my face.

There is not one picture of me coming out of the water smiling. Not one.

RIDING THE WAVE

Let’s talk water. Even before race day, I was very, very, very, VERY nervous about the swim. It’s my weakest sport and—once I thought I was out of the race because of the microfracture in my hip—I slacked off on my swim training. I only decided to do the race a couple of weeks before the event and swung into panic mode. I did an OWS (open water swim) clinic in a local lake and realized I didn’t know how to sight. I made the last minute decision to rent a wet suit for which I remain eternally grateful.

I’ve done a lot of races over the years and have never panicked at the start line—until now. I was fighting back tears about an hour before the start because I didn’t think I’d be allowed to wear my wetsuit. The water temperature was over wetsuit legal, meaning if you wore one you wouldn’t be eligible for an age-group award. I had no plans on winning any awards, so that didn’t bother me. But then a misinformed volunteer told me that wetsuits weren’t going to be allowed—period. And I freaked. “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can do it.” That’s what I heard coming out of my mouth even though I know better than to sink into negative self-talk before a race. “Trust the training” is my usual fallback but I knew my training wasn’t as strong as it should have been so I just felt lost. More than that, I felt a loss of control which, for anyone who knows me, well… let’s just leave it at that.

Fortunately, I found a friend from the OWS clinic who had brought his wetsuit, and as we changed into them we attracted more people with westsuits who approached us with distinct looks of relief on their face, saying, “I’m so happy to see you! I thought I was the only one.” A good reminder that you will always find your people.

I settled into the swim and was going great. “1-2-3-BREATHE, 1-2-3—BREATHE.” Then I noticed a kayak in my left peripheral vision. I pulled up short and the volunteer leaned down. “Ma’am, you’re headed out to deep sea.”

I looked back across the lake and the buoys were waaaaay the hell to my right. How ‘bout that. I laughed instead of panicked and swam back. Given all my back and forth and up and down, I’m positive I swam at least 1.5 miles versus 1.2.

When I was halfway through the swim, a feeling of fierceness swept through me. “I am going to finish this race.” Injured or healthy, the swim was always going to be my biggest hurdle. I was slow, but I was doing it.

Dena

]]>Raleigh 70.3, Part I: THE SWIMTable For OneEntertainmentHome LifeTravelDena HarrisSat, 27 May 2017 23:10:17 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/table-for-one55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:592a059ce6f2e1b241629bf5I just returned from a brief vacation—three days in the Virginia mountains.
It was my first solo trip. Or rather, first solo vacation. I’ve travelled
alone for business, but have always shied away from the idea of vacationing
alone. On a business trip, I may be eating dinner alone at the bar but it
should be quite obvious I’m not in Orangeburg, SC for a relaxing get-away,
so there was never any awkwardness. But eating at a renowned local tavern
in a quaint VA town where people are sporting “I ❤ VA” t-shirts and
everyone is holding hands and taking selfies, red alert: Solo single female
traveler in your midst.I just returned from a brief vacation—three days in the Virginia mountains. It was my first solo trip. Or rather, first solo vacation. I’ve travelled alone for business, but have always shied away from the idea of vacationing alone. On a business trip, I may be eating dinner alone at the bar but it should be quite obvious I’m not in Orangeburg, SC for a relaxing get-away, so there was never any awkwardness. But eating at a renowned local tavern in a quaint VA town where people are sporting “I ❤ VA” t-shirts and everyone is holding hands and taking selfies, red alert: Solo single female traveler in your midst.

DAY 1

Fortunately, I found myself good company. The only “plan” I had was to disconnect and people, mission accomplished. There was a cold, steady rain the first day and a half I was there, which suited me just fine. I more-or-less stayed in bed and read 285 pages of a riveting book on social justice and the 1971 Attica uprising. (Blood In The Water – highly recommend.) I did a quick run on the treadmill, browsed the over-priced gift shops in the resort, did some writing and had a white wine and charcuterie plate for dinner because, vacation. And I slept. And slept, slept. Probably nine hours each night.

DAY 2

More writing. And reading. But the sun was out so I browsed the shops on Main Street before signing up for a 2 ½ hour mountain bike ride down the VA Creeper Trail. I almost backed out at the last minute, wondering if it would be any fun alone, but I’m so glad I went as it was the best part of my trip. There was one couple in the van and we found we had books, politics, food and beer in common and talked non-stop for the one-hour drive to the entry point. Not wanting to intrude on their time together, I hopped on my bike ahead of them and took off.

Admittedly, it was a bit lonely at first on the trail. It would have been nice to point out the sights and take in the beauty with someone, but I quickly got over this. The ride was stunning, and I impressed myself when my bike kept slipping gears and the chain fell off and I’m at the top of this trail in the wilderness, alone, and I fixed that motherf***er. And I made friends. I stopped at scenic views and chatted with families and couples and hikers. One elderly gentleman barreled past me at one point, and a few minutes later his friend came along, pedaled up to me and said, “He’s faster than you, but you’re a lot more fun to look at,” and continued on his way. Cracked me up and kept me grinning the next few miles.

DAY 3

I had plans to get up early and go for a run on the Creeper Trail before heading back to Greensboro but as I got dressed, I found myself dragging. I’d journaled quite a bit the day before about controlling my exercise instead of my exercise controlling me, and I realized I just didn’t feel like running. So instead I ate waffles for breakfast before strolling the local farmers market and then heading home.

WHAT I LEARNED

It would be nice to record some life-altering insights but nothing that big occurred. My big takeaway is that I’m not only okay traveling alone, I enjoyed it. My schedule. My decisions. My waffles.

Okay, a few more things:

You’re never really alone. It’s amazing how often I struck up brief but interesting conversations with people at breakfast, in the hotel lobby, in boutiques (I helped a local woman select a lovely necklace as a gift for her niece) and on the Creeper Trail. People are more likely to talk to you when you are alone, versus when you’re huddled off in a corner with your girlfriends or your mate. Who knew.

Disconnecting is the bomb. I didn’t take one selfie or one picture of the food I ate and yet life goes on. I didn’t even take my phone with me most days when I left my room. I have only my memories of the beauty of the Creeper Trail and those are plentiful. Also, it’s empowering to not even look at, let alone answer, emails and texts.

I need to travel and get away more to stoke the writing fires. It’s so easy to get pulled into the daily rut of life. I want more.

I’ll need to build up to a long solo vacation—a week or more. Three days was the perfect introduction, but pretty sure I would have been on my own nerves by day four or five.

So, trip one, a success. Stay tuned for where trip two may take me. And if I ignored your texts or emails, my apologies.

I was getting my beauty sleep.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Dating Diaries: What It Takes To Be My BoyfriendDating DiariesDena HarrisSun, 23 Apr 2017 16:05:51 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/dating-diaries-what-it-takes-to-be-my-boyfriend55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58fccf9b3a041197bb8c8457Recently, a friend jokingly said something to me like, “So, how many
boyfriends have you gone through this year?
First of all—ouch. Second of all, with full respect to the men I’ve dated,
my answer to that question would probably be, "Zero."That’s not to say I
haven’t dated and that I haven’t been in “we’re only seeing each other”
relationships. It’s just that I’ve thought of most of these men as “the
person I’m dating,” versus “my boyfriend.” Which led me to wonder… what is
the threshold for someone to cross over into “boyfriend” territory?Recently, a friend jokingly said something to me like, “So, how many boyfriends have you gone through this year?

First of all—ouch. Second of all, with full respect to the men I’ve dated, my answer to that question would probably be, "Zero." That’s not to say I haven’t dated and that I haven’t been in “we’re only seeing each other” relationships. It’s just that I’ve thought of most of these men as “the person I’m dating,” versus “my boyfriend.” Which led me to wonder… what is the threshold for someone to cross over into “boyfriend” territory? (And let’s skip the fact that it’s hard to reconcile being in your 40s and 50s and talking about “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” like we’re teenagers. Yeesh—different discussion.)

I put a little thought into it and came up with a partial list of criteria for what—in my mind, at least—it takes to move from “dating” to “boyfriend” status.

You are the person I would write without hesitation as my emergency contact on a race form

We feel comfortable dropping by each other’s homes without advance notice

We more or less are clued in to and understand each other’s finances

We’ve met extended family

I can reach over and take food off your plate without asking (Heads up—I do this anyway and usually on a first date so it’s not like a “solid” criteria)

We’ve got no problem asking each other to do a favor or run an errand

We are each other’s designated plant/house/pet sitters

It’s assumed without discussion that we are each other’s date for weddings, parties, and major holidays

I have one or more of your t-shirts/sweatshirts in my dresser that I’ve “borrowed” from you and never given back—and pretty much have no intention of doing so

You’ve embraced the fact that I more or less live in workout clothes and are okay with it

We bring our problems and challenges to each other because we value and trust each others opinions and insights

We accept morning breath is a thing and both quit sneaking into the bathroom early to rinse with Scope and pretend we wake up with minty-fresh breath

People stop asking, “Are you still seeing ______” and instead ask, “How’s ____” because they assume, correctly, we are still together

We can be in the same room, each doing our own thing and be comfortable, not feeling the need to always talk

We nap together

We’ve travelled together—and it went well enough that we would do it again

If something important happens, we call and talk to each other versus sending a text

We’re not afraid to disagree with and challenge one another—i.e., it’s safe to have a “fight”

We’ve done the “key exchange” ritual

I’ve driven your car and you’ve driven mine

We make each other laugh

We make each other better

I’m sure I’m missing a few key things like, “You always have chocolate hidden in the house for me” and “You’re not afraid to call me out on my shit,” but this list is a good beginning. And please note that most of the items are things that can’t be “done” or checked off. They are, rather, the result of a closeness and intimacy that occurs over time.

In other words, there is no rushing the boyfriend/girlfriend status. Like when you walk into a chocolate store and spot the perfect truffle—you just know when it’s right.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>The Happiness of Not RunningRunningDena HarrisSat, 08 Apr 2017 21:08:17 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/the-happiness-of-not-running55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58e94c32db29d654dc005a13I have a secret. Something I'll barely admit to myself, let alone others,
but I feel the urge to share. Ready? Here goes.
I've been perfectly fine not running these past several weeks.
Seriously. There have only been one or two real moments where I've been
like, "Huh. Sure would be nice to go for a run." Otherwise, it's almost
been a relief to not have to run.
Of course a few factors have contributed to that.I have a secret. Something I'll barely admit to myself, let alone others, but I feel the urge to share. Ready? Here goes.

I've been perfectly fine not running these past several weeks.

Seriously. There have only been one or two real moments where I've been like, "Huh. Sure would be nice to go for a run." Otherwise, it's almost been a relief to not have to run.

Of course a few factors have contributed to that. One is that the weather was cold and ugly when I was first injured, so it's not like I was missing out on beautiful running weather. Another is that I'm allowed to bike and swim. If zero cardio were allowed, I would be going insane. The third reason is I have great friends, who have been checking up on me and making me feel included, even if I can't hit the pavement with them.

But the biggest reason I'm okay not running is because (knock wood) it's temporary.

If I'd been told I could never run again, I'd be devastated. Like, going-into-the-ugly-cry-for-months devastated. But hopefully, in a few more weeks, I'll be cleared to go back. So my reality is that I missed two months. It's not the end of the world. As luck would have it, I've been super busy at work and with writing and friends so, if anything, this injury came at a good time.

Having this time away has brought some issues to the forefront, namely how I allow my workouts to sometimes stress me out more than they take stress away. A great example of this is my sleep patterns. Before I was sidelined, I had horrible sleep. I'd wake up 2-3 times a night to check the clock, and always woke up a good 20-30 minutes before my alarm went off at 4 or 4:30. I was taking over-the-counter sleeping pills and melatonin to knock myself out, but it wasn't working.

Once I was put on crutches and couldn't hit the gym, I slept like a log. Straight through the night until about 10 minutes before my alarm went off at 6 am. The very first day I was cleared to exercise, I set my alarm for 4:30 am--and woke up 2-3 times during the night and 30 minutes before the alarm went off. Boom. Straight back into it.

Something about knowing a workout is looming is working me up into a mental state where I can't relax. I don't have an answer for it yet, but at least I know it exists. And, since my workouts have been much lighter than usual, I am finding that my sleep is getting better. There have been a few days where my alarm has woken me up, which is rare.

Today is beautiful and sunny. I took a short walk outside and relished the fact that I don't have to deal with the hassle or guilt of making time for a run. It's not my call. It's simply not an option. And I'm good with that.

For now.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Crutch-Ninja No MoreDena HarrisSat, 01 Apr 2017 09:38:02 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/crutch-ninja-no-more55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58df74fde6f2e17ea4b341daYesterday someone told me those three most important words in the English
language all of us long to hear:
No more crutches.
I can hardly believe my good fortune--someone up there still likes me. (Or,
more likely, simple isn't up-to-date on my life-shaming exploits but
whatever, I'll take it.) I met with my orthopedic doctor yesterday and he
began with, "I have some good news," to which I replied, "Don't play with
my emotions." But, unless it's the cruelest April Fool's joke on record, I
am officially released to swim, bike, walk and do yoga. We're waiting three
more weeks before running or any overhead weight-lifting. One month ago I
would have said that facing six weeks of no running would kill me. Now I'm
ecstatic that I only have six weeks and that I can so many other things. Yesterday someone told me those three most important words in the English language all of us long to hear:

No more crutches.

I can hardly believe my good fortune--someone up there still likes me. (Or, more likely, simple isn't up-to-date on my life-shaming exploits but whatever, I'll take it.) I met with my orthopedic doctor yesterday and he began with, "I have some good news," to which I replied, "Don't play with my heart." But, unless it's the cruelest April Fool's joke on record, I am officially released to swim, bike, walk and do yoga. We're waiting three more weeks before running or any overhead weight-lifting. One month ago I would have said that facing six weeks of no running would kill me. Now I'm ecstatic that I only have six weeks and that I can so many other things.

THE DIAGNOSIS

This may not be medically accurate, but this is what I heard. I don't have an actual stress fracture. Instead I have edema or swelling around the area and what he called "micro-fractures." So the bone is stressed but not actually broken. The two weeks on crutches probably did a lot to save me. In addition, I have weak glutes. (I wanted to say to him, "WHAT?! You can bounce a quarter off this shit," but refrained. Personal growth.) My chiropractor diagnosed weak glutes months ago--they don't fire when I run. So I've got exercises I need to do 3X/day to strengthen them. And my left leg is apparently a hair shorter than my right, so orthopedic lifts may be in my future--but we'll deal with that when we get there.

LESSON LEARNED

While everyone was happy to learn yesterday that I'm off crutches, I heard as many cautionary remarks as I did congratulations. "Don't rush it." "Take it easy." Yes--I hear you. Drawing a bead on my personality, the doctor even said, "This doesn't mean you try to make up for lost time. No three-hour bike rides off the bat. Ease back in and if it hurts, stop." My office is doing a Rites of Spring ride today, 30-40 miles, and they invited me. My first instinct was to say yes--I could probably manage a slow 30 miles. But I said no. Instead, I'm going to go do a 50-minute spin class and call it a day.

This set-back really did scare me. I'm easing back in. No running for three more weeks. From here on out, I will take one full rest day every week for recovery. I also want to keep the progress going I've made on the goals listed in my original blog about being injured:

Minimize caffeine

Get more sleep

Spend time with friends

Read

Write

Eat clean

And, once again, I find myself humbled by the amazing people in my life. People sent flowers, neighbors brought me apple pie, everyone at work ferried my laptop and coffee cup around from meeting to meeting (Not going to lie--I'm sorry to see that end) and, as mentioned, people flooded my liver with alcohol.

I lead an amazing life.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Crutch-Ninja No MoreWinning the DivorceDating DiariesSmug SeparatedsDena HarrisMon, 27 Mar 2017 23:17:04 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/winning-the-divorce55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58d80a2eff7c50b1728a6ca6About four months after B. and I separated, he asked if I could meet him
for dinner. He had some news. The "news" was that he would more or less be
living in Paris for the next 12-24 months, overseeing a European company
purchase made by his company. For anyone not in the know, B. and I parted
on excellent terms and have remained friends. I was thrilled for him, but
couldn’t resist a small tease.
“So you’re saying that if I had hung on for four more months, I could be a
freelance writer living in Paris?” I asked.About four months after B. and I separated, he asked if I could meet him for dinner. He had some news. The "news" was that he would more or less be living in Paris for the next 12-24 months, overseeing a European company purchase made by his company. For anyone not in the know, B. and I parted on excellent terms and have remained friends. I was thrilled for him, but couldn’t resist a small tease.

“So you’re saying that if I had hung on for four more months, I could be a freelance writer living in Paris?” I asked, feigning dismay.

Never one to resist a friendly jab of his own, B. leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Karma’s a bitch.”

Fast forward three years and we’re out having dinner, when the conversation turns to dating. It took awhile, but we've arrived at the point where we can laugh together about the trials of dating. At the time, B. was seeing a woman who sang jazz on the side, and they had recently returned from one of her “gigs” in Asheville.

“Oh my God—enough already,” I said, throwing down my fork.

B. looked startled. “What?”

I ticked items off on my fingers. “You live in a super-cool renovated loft. You work in Paris. You’re dating a jazz singer. Enough already. We all get it… You’re winning the divorce.” I rolled my eyes.

B. laughed. “Oh sugar, it’s not a competition and no I’m not.”

“Don’t placate me,” I said. “You so are.”

B. thought for a moment and then grinned. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am.”

Anyone who knows me, knows my competitive spirit. But if I have to lose, I'm more than happy to do it to someone like B. May the best man win, indeed.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>The Story of the SnakeHome LifeDena HarrisSun, 26 Mar 2017 15:05:40 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/pja026vj3ug87qq63lg2ibvfk36kz355afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58d7d5d2cd0f6848b79e215bThere are things in life for which I expect to garner a certain amount of
pity. You may or may not feel sorry for me that I’m confined to crutches
but damn it, when I call and tell you there’s a snake outside my front
door, I expect a sympathy bouquet from 1-800-FLOWERS to show up, pronto.
This is the story of the snake, but it could also be called, “How My Mom
Failed Me.”There are things in life for which I expect to garner a certain amount of pity. You may or may not feel sorry for me that I’m confined to crutches but damn it, when I call and tell you there’s a snake outside my front door, I expect a sympathy bouquet from 1-800-FLOWERS to show up, pronto.

This is the story of the snake, but it could also be called, “How My Mom Failed Me.”

When I arrived home from dinner Saturday night, I collected my things from the car and lurched my way to the door. While wrangling my keys from my purse, I noticed a very thin and exceptionally long earthworm lounging just in front of my porch mat. I peered in closer and the worm raised its slimy little head.

@!*-ing snake.

I looked around my condo complex, fighting the urge to yell, “Help! Help!” I was more than willing to play the damsel-in-distress-I’m-on-crutches-I’m-so-helpless-please-save-me card in a heartbeat if anyone had appeared, man or woman. Pride is a relative thing.

Instead, I turned back to face the beast.

“Shoo,” I said. “Go away. Shoo.”

The head swiveled right and left but the body didn’t move. I knew I should just pick up the mat and he would probably slither away, but that would place my hand in closer proximity to a snake than I was comfortable with. So I used what I had at my disposal. I began stomping the ground near him with my crutches.

“Go away!” STOMP-STOMP. “Move!” STOMP-STOMP-STOMP.

When snakes decide to move, they are unnervingly fast. He did a sidewinder slither to the side of my porch and I kept herding him with my crutches, praying he wouldn’t change direction and force me to disobey doctor’s orders not to run.

“Oh right, I did. He was brown, right? I’ve read most poisonous snakes around here are mottled so you should be fine.”

This was not the conversation I thought I would have. Obviously, she didn’t understand the life-threatening danger of the situation.

“I’m afraid to walk outside now,” I said.

“Hm. Well, I just hope he hasn’t decided that your mat is a good place to hide,” she said. “You may want to just prop it up against the wall for a day or two in case he comes back.”

Comes back??? WTH???

To add insult to injury, when I did step foot outside Sunday morning, there was no snake. Instead, a want-to-be-tarantula was curled up inside my door stoop. (I'd bet money that was what the snake was after.) At this point, I’d had enough.

“AIEEEEE!!!!” I screeched as I used my crutch to stomp the hairy little body into oblivion. “See that?” I called out to the snake as I swept the dead spider into the grass. “Do not mess with me, motherf---er.”

Crutch-Ninja. That’s me.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>The Story of the SnakeFrom Endurance Athlete to AlcoholicDena HarrisSat, 25 Mar 2017 12:26:15 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/from-endurance-athlete-to-alcoholic-155afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58d65f3059cc68feaa434220Now that I’m banned from working out, I find myself with an abundance of
free time on my crutch-clutching hands. What to do with all the spare
minutes in the day? The answer, apparently, is drink.
If I make it out of this recovery period without becoming a raging
alcoholic, it won’t be for lack of trying. Upon finding out I was banned
from all workouts, my friends more or less put me on a suicide-watch, the
main distraction strategy apparently being to feed me wine. People are
pouring out of the woodwork with offers to imbibe. “Oh my gosh, you poor
thing. Are you okay? Do you want to meet for a drink?”Now that I’m banned from working out, I find myself with an abundance of free time on my crutch-clutching hands. What to do with all the spare minutes in the day? The answer, apparently, is drink.

If I make it out of this recovery period without becoming a raging alcoholic, it won’t be for lack of trying. Upon finding out I was banned from all workouts, my friends more or less put me on a suicide-watch, the main distraction strategy apparently being to feed me wine. People are pouring out of the woodwork with offers to imbibe. “Oh my gosh, you poor thing. Are you okay? Do you want to meet for a drink?”

Previously, I was too busy too meet for drinks and, even if I weren’t, I was always up at 4 am to hit the gym and wasn’t interested in drinking the night before a workout. Now, however, able to sleep in and with no cardio in sight, I’m like, “Sure let’s meet for a drink! Let’s have two!”

Seriously, I need to cut it back.

And more changes are in sight. I am approaching this off time as an opportunity to reboot. Whether the changes last beyond the injury remains to be seen, but I’m already making progress. To wit:

Nix the caffeine. My gym offers free coffee and I’d gotten into the habit of drinking a big cup before and after most workouts. Then I’d head into the office and drink another 1-2 cups of java. No more. I never drank caffeine until maybe four years ago and I’m aiming to return to that state of balance. I’m already down to 7-8 oz of leaded coffee once a day, if that.

Natural sleep. Since I was piling caffeine into my body during the day, I was having trouble sleeping at night and was taking over-the-counter sleeping pills and Advil PM to knock myself out. My body didn’t know which way was up. Now I’m falling asleep naturally and getting in a good 7+ hours a night, which feels amazing.

More time with friends. Getting up at 4 am and going to bed at 8:30 pm doesn’t leave a lot of time to connect with friends and family. This is the perfect time to re-establish connections—if only I can make myself pick up the phone.

Read. I’ve finished two books in the last 10 days and read The New Yorker and The Atlantic cover to cover. So. Happy.

Write. Think happy thoughts as just this week my agent sent my dating book proposal out to editors. I’m getting a jump on writing the book and catching up on this blog.

Eat clean. Over the past year I’ve slid into an abysmal (for me) diet. Way too much bread, carbs and sugar. I could get away with it because of how much I worked out, but I still didn’t feel good. Bad food choices will make you feel worse than not exercising, any day. So I’m eating clean, limiting my poor food choices to, apparently, alcohol.

Above all, I keep repeating to myself, “Everything for a reason.” Even if I’m not happy about it, my body and mind need this reboot. And there are certainly worse things in life than missing out on 6-12 weeks of workouts. Am I happy about it? No. Am I accepting of it? Getting there. Am I seeing it as a much-needed reprieve from a life that was getting too far out of balance? Yes.

We should go out and have a drink to celebrate that.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>And We're Back...AgingHome LifeRunningDena HarrisThu, 23 Mar 2017 10:42:55 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/and-were-back55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:58d3a16e1e5b6c804e64fd78Time to blow the dust off this blog. But first, a quick peek into my life
over the past 7 months.
1. I ran and went to the gym.
2. I went on some dates.
3. I worked.
Okay, then. Good summary! Moving on.
I'm kicking off my return to blogging with an announcement--I'm grounded. I
was diagnosed last week with a stress fracture to my left femoral head. Not
good. Time to blow the dust off this blog. But first, a quick peek into my life over the past 7 months.

I ran and went to the gym.

I went on some dates.

I worked.

Okay, then. Good summary! Moving on.

I'm kicking off my return to blogging with an announcement--I'm grounded. I was diagnosed last week with a stress fracture to my left femoral head, which is where the ball of your leg connects to your hip socket. Apparently, it's a nasty place to have a fracture, given my chiropractor's initial phone call to me which began, "What the HELL did you do?"

Since then, I've been put on crutches. Absolutely no running for 6-8 weeks, minimum. And, for the moment, no cycling, yoga, and only minimal swimming. (It's like they WANT to kill me.) I go for an MRI next Thursday and will know more then about how big the fracture is and how much time out I'm facing. So, as a way to stay sane and pass the time, I'm back blogging. And people--I have some stories to tell. New dating stories. Update on the book proposal which is now circulating amongst editors. (If you're an editor and reading this, HEY! HI! PICK ME! PICK ME!) And I will have lots to say about this injury--why it happened, what I've learned and--most importantly--whom I can blame it on. (Right now, I'm the key suspect, but I'm working on that.)

For the moment, I'm focusing on learning to walk on crutches without presenting an immediate danger to myself or others. Also, yesterday I received my handicapped parking sticker, good until June. (Hear that, retired guys at the gym? I'm coming for your parking spots. Game on.)

I'm glad I'm back but even more happy you've chosen to join me.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Don’t Call Me, I’ll Call YouDena HarrisWed, 03 Aug 2016 21:28:37 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/dont-call-me-ill-call-you55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:57a26156d2b85706920c0df4Here is a conversation I’ve had more than once over the phone. You can
insert almost any friend’s name in here.
RING-RING.
ME: Hello?
FRIEND: Hey! What’s up?
ME: Nothing.
FRIEND: So whatcha doing?
ME: Um… stuff. Did you need something?

Here is a conversation I’ve had more than once over the phone. You can insert almost any friend’s name in here.

RING-RING.

ME: Hello?

FRIEND: Hey! What’s up?

ME: Nothing.

FRIEND: So whatcha doing?

ME: Um… stuff. Did you need something?

The majority of my friends understand and respect the fact that I am not a phone talker. I am, in fact, the very opposite of whatever a phone talker may be. Is “phone hater” a thing? I think it should be.

People who love to talk on the phone flummox me. It’s like telling me you spent the whole day walking around on your hands. Why? Why would you do such a thing?

This was brought home to me this past weekend when I met my friends Christie and Cindy for Feeny’s fro-yo. One of our friends, Jeriann, had moved to Texas and we were bemoaning her loss.

“She’s so busy,” said Cindy. “I probably only talk to her two or three times a week.”

“What do you mean ‘only?’” I asked.

“We used to talk every day when she was here,” said Cindy.

My jaw dropped. “You did what???” I looked to Christie to share my shock and horror.

“Oh honey, we talk every day,” she said, motioning to Cindy.

I sat in stunned silence. Part of me felt left out, but the greater part of me was horrified they might drag me into this phone hell with them. Which they immediately did.

“We’re going to call you every day,” said Cindy, winking at Christie.

“Oh honey, I’ll call you on my drive in, my lunch hour and from the bathroom,” said Christie.

“Don’t even joke,” I said.

Of course they both immediately posted to my Facebook page how they’re looking forward to calling me every day.

Those posts prompted the following exchange with another friend who well knows how much I hate to talk on the phone. We had chatted briefly the day of the posts on a work-related matter. The next day, I received a voicemail that I saved and transcribed:

"Hi, it’s me. I am so sad you’re not around. I have so much to tell you since we spoke yesterday, which is roughly been 16 hours, honestly too long to go without talking. Oh--huge huge huge news! I think I found a gray pubic hair this morning while shaving. I showed it to L--- and he tried to convince me that it was dirty blonde. I really think he was trying to make me feel better but I just don't know if he can be trusted at this point. We can talk about this tomorrow to see what you think. Love you. Call me!"

Oh. My. God. I do so love my friends. Even if I can’t get off the damn phone with them.

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Dating Diaries: First Date AgendaDating DiariesDena HarrisThu, 28 Jul 2016 20:59:21 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/dating-diaries-first-date-agenda55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:579a714bb3db2b1cc24d8ec8Lots of people go on a date with a hidden agenda—inspire passion; find a
spouse; score a free meal, but how many women are actually provided with an
outlined agenda for how a date will proceed?
Digging through old emails, I found this gem. This came from an intelligent
and witty PhD that I met one night when I was out with girlfriends. We had
mutual friends in common and he was writing a book. He got my email by
asking if I’d be willing to read...

Lots of people go on a date with a hidden agenda—inspire passion; find a spouse; score a free meal, but how many women are actually provided with an outlined agenda for how a date will proceed?

Digging through old emails, I found this gem. This came from an intelligent and witty PhD that I met one night when I was out with girlfriends. We had mutual friends in common and he was writing a book. He got my email by asking if I’d be willing to read the first chapter and provide feedback. I agreed to look at the chapter and we made plans to meet for dinner to discuss. He must have pegged me instantly as the Type A personality I am, because this email had me cracking up from the moment I started reading it. I’ve copied it almost verbatim below, changing/obscuring a few details to protect the innocent. One of my favorites.

Hi Dena:

Thank you for your comments. I went to your website and enjoyed your blog posts, though you are so active/busy it is a bit scary. How about I give you an item for your blog..."So I went on this date with a PhD engineer, and he sent me an agenda for our Discussion....”

Agenda for Meeting (Date) at Sticks and Stones

Date/Time: Friday, 6:20 PM

I. Greetings and Small Talk(Interests, travel, etc.)

II. Order food and drinks

III. Business & Discussion Items

A. X's Book, and potential collaboration

B. Dating checklists for potential partners

C. Objective: Mostly just fun, getting your place repaired by eager men or partner seeking?

D. Should we feel guilty for being too picky? So many less attractive people want dates too.

E. Can one partner meet all our needs or should polyamory be an option?

IV. Conclusions and closing comments: Where do we go from here. If nowhere, is the silent treatment (no response is no interest) to be used or is it best to be direct?

Best Wishes,

X

Classic, right?

Cheers,

Dena

]]>Dating Diaries: “I Had Another Crier”Dating DiariesDena HarrisThu, 14 Jul 2016 22:28:19 +0000http://www.denaharris.com/blog/dating-diaries-i-had-another-crier55afdf8de4b07bd79ef64a7a:55aff15ae4b04e7d13e69831:578811bf29687fd4e1525738My friend J. is also doing the online dating thing. He emailed the other day to share a long and disturbing story of a woman who just started sobbing in the middle of dinner on their first date. We decided she was either mentally unbalanced or—and kudos to her if this was it—she was executing a clever ploy to excuse herself from the date.

We both kind of wrote it off as “Huh. Whatever.” moment. Then J. texted me yesterday:

J: I had another crier! This one broke down and said "I just love the Bible and Jesus so much..." in between sobs...

Me: Oh. My. God. How are you attracting these women?? You really need to refine your screening process.

J: I know! I guess I could put a clause that says: if you think you were born more than once, swipe left! This one waited until I'd bought her two sushi dinners before she went New Testament on my ass.

Uh, ladies? Breaking into sobs on a date may indicate—and this is just a hunch but hear me out—that you are perhaps not ready to date.